Echoes of a Song Half Sung
by lembas7
Summary: His name is Wilson. James Wilson. And his secret is bigger than House could have ever imagined.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** House, M.D. and all assorted characters belong to David Shore.

**A/N:** So AU, it's off all the charts. Set mid S2, post-Stacey. Everything I know about medicine/drugs I learned from Wikipedia, and you all know how reliable _that_ is. More comments on my LJ (homepage link on my profile).

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* * *

ECHOES OF A SONG HALF-SUNG

**Princeton, New Jersey. November, 1997.**

Two hundred yards. Just two hundred yards, and he'd be safe again – or as safe as he ever got, anyway. Hand off the package, complete his link in the chain, and be done.

"David?"

_No. Dammit, Jamie, no._ He turned, keeping the sudden panic off his face. But he couldn't find a smile, either. _How did he find me?_ "What are you doing here?"

Deep brown eyes blinked in surprise, but there was happiness on that face too. Jamie kept walking in the direction David had been going, falling easily into step with him. "I was looking for you."

No way his younger brother had just stumbled across him, not now. Not without help. _Help with enough strings to strangle Gulliver. Damn it, James!_

"It's not safe here," David murmured, fiercely angry. His brother's eyes, so like his own, were flicking over the street in quick, practiced moves. Assessing. _He's good,_ David realized with surprise. But then, why shouldn't he be? The three Wilson brothers, in any combination, could do _anything_ when their minds were set to the task.

And they hadn't been the only ones to realize it.

"I know," James whispered back, and both brothers knew they weren't talking about the Princeton slums. "How far?"

They might still make it, they might. "Two hundred yards."

His brother's indrawn breath was near-silent. Only someone who'd grown up in the same house would hear the shock in it. _Too far._

They could still make it; their clothes were unremarkable enough to blend into the sparse crowds of street-people if they had to. They could disappear, if the op went south. For now, they were safest continuing on, not drawing attention. Which would only work if they didn't look like they were hurrying.

"How's everyone?" David asked, keeping his voice pleasant, calm.

Jamie huffed a laugh. "Same old. Dad's sick of golfing, actually bent a few of his irons like boomerangs just to see how far they'd go when he threw them out onto the driving range. Mom's got a new recipe for gefilte fish she can't wait to try out on the cousins. Michael wants to know if you'll be home for Chanukah."

_And what about you?_ David let a smirk and a questioning glance at the middle Wilson brother ask for him.

"I've finished my residency," Jamie admitted.

_He's going to be a doctor. _He'd be good at it. Of all three brothers, James was the gentlest – though he'd snarl, in his way, at anyone who came out and said it. "Then what are you doing in the Game?" David couldn't help but hiss.

His brother didn't even flinch. "We miss you," he said evenly. "We want you to come home."

"And you came to find me."

Jamie didn't bother answering; it wasn't a question.

"I can't," David sighed. _Do I want to?_ There was a little piece of him that longed for the comfort of home, underneath the bigger part that was still caught up in the newness of intrigue. "You know why I can't." _But I never wanted this life for you._

"I . . . can understand why you wouldn't want to," Jamie admitted, and there was the smallest hint of a mischievous twinkle in those brown eyes.

David's stomach twisted._ I wasn't there._ He hadn't been there, and his brother had come looking and gotten tangled in the Game. Couldn't blame the recruiters – David knew how good he himself was, and knew his brothers could match him easily if they wanted. All anyone had to do was dangle the bait. _James and Michael would do anything, if someone could guarantee my safety._ He knew it down to the bone; that was how the Game was played. Worst part was, James was enough like David to _like_ it.

_One hundred yards. _Halfway there. The disc felt heavy in his pocket; but he knew that was just his mind, leaping with adrenaline.

"Listen to me, Jamie." He kept his voice quiet, but poured every ounce of soul he could gather into the words. This was important. "Go home. Be a doctor." _While you still can._ "Just – don't follow me. I'll come home when I'm ready." _When I'm done here, when I can pull out without putting you and Michael, and Mom and Dad, in any more danger._ "Please."

"Don't ask me to leave you behind, David," James whispered. "I can't -"

They heard it at the same time.

A motor, smooth and nearly soundless – _too quiet for this neighborhood_ – was creeping up on them. David knew without looking that they'd been made, almost seventy-five yards from safety. _We'll never make it._

"Here." David pressed the CD case into his brother's hand. Between one breath and the next it disappeared into James' coat pocket. "It's a cipher," he muttered, and the next word, the key, was only just loud enough to reach his brother's ears.

Steps, on the pavement behind them. There was probably surveillance on the rooftops lining both sides of the street, and if they were really, really unlucky, someone waiting to box them in up ahead.

_They'll be coming after me._ James wouldn't be anything more than a blip on the radar – or collateral damage too easily disposed of. _Over my dead body._ Likely enough, if he slipped up. But if they did this right, he could get the information clear, complete this stage of the mission. "Tell me this isn't your first time out," David muttered, speeding his pace just the slightest. _Please, please let this be your first mission. _The only thing that frightened him more, in this moment, than having to protect a brother who couldn't protect himself, was the thought of his younger brother having done this before. Without him.

James matched his pace with only the barest flicker of worry. "I've been around the block a time or two."

_I find out who pulled you into the Game, and they're dead._ What came out of his mouth, flavored with grim relief, was, "Great."

The sound of steps behind them had almost disappeared. David felt every muscle tense. _Maybe thirty seconds. Probably less._ "This is your last time around the block, Jamie."

"Are you trying to tell me what to do, David?" Tense lines around James' mouth pulled the half-smile out of shape.

_That_ had never worked well. _Change tack._ They weren't going to make it anyway; David stopped in the middle of the filthy sidewalk, kicking aside a crumpled McDonald's bag with one shoe. He locked his gaze with brown eyes identical to his own. "No. I'm your brother, and I love you. I am _begging_ _you_ – get out."

It was a manipulation; they were both expert enough in maneuvering other people to their wishes to know exactly what was going on here. Just as they both knew that, couched in those terms, there was no way James could refuse. David read hurt in his brother's eyes, and resignation, and understanding. "Fine," James breathed. "But you _will_ come home, David. Promise me."

The street was dead silent.

_Ten seconds. Gotta get him clear._

"Dave." Jamie's face was pale, frightened. "Please."

"I -"

They ran out of time.

Later, casting his mind back, those few minutes are scattered flashes of memory. Pain exploded in his ribs, but all he could see were horrified brown eyes. David struck back, feeling flesh and bone give under the force of his frantic rage. Blood spotted through his brother's coat high on one arm even as the younger Wilson threw out a hand, reaching for him. There was a shadowy figure creeping up behind Jamie, just as David's world went black.

It was the last time he saw his brother.

**

* * *

**

Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. April, 2006.

Of all the places for life to go to hell, it would have to be the clinic.

"Hands up! Nobody move, or I-I'll shoot!"

_Sonuva-_ Half out of an exam room, House pulled up short. People were on the ground or cowering in their chairs, covering their heads or their purses or their children, whichever was deemed most important in the span of a split-second. He could see nurses frozen behind the central circulation desk, the one token security guard lying on white linoleum beside a thick streak of red. _Dead? Dying? Doesn't matter – can't do anything with that psycho waving a gun around –_

House _thump_ed forward a step, opening his mouth to –

"Hey."

The gunman jerked toward the voice, and House felt the blood chill in his veins. _No._

"Look, just calm down, okay? What do you want?"

_Wilson, you idiot!_

The oncologist had been at the desk filling out paperwork, his shift ending just as House's ticked slowly towards half-done. He was closest to the gunman now; probably had the best view of wild eyes and spittle-flecked lips. _Don't. He's so high he doesn't know what planet he's on, Wilson –_

"I'll shoot! I'll do it!" The man was almost vibrating, semi-automatic wavering before it settled on the closest available body.

"Okay." Wilson's voice was calm, his entire body non-threatening, hands out and back to the desk and entirely too close to the gun. "What do you want? We'll get it for you. What do you need?"

_It's not gonna work._ Jerky movements, slurred words, wild behavior – all added up to some chemical upper mixed with whatever this guy took to get his high. _Amphetamines. Cocaine. Methylphenidate._ Which one didn't matter. Wilson was good, but the drug haze was too thick for even him to work his magic.

"Percocet," the man spat, shaggy hair that looked as if it had been hacked at with dull scissors flying in his face. "Need a p'scription. Ten mg. Write it."

_Right, and he's just gonna walk over to the pharmacy and fill it? _House's fingers clenched on his cane as the crazy gun-slinger advanced on the oncologist. _Too close!_ "Hey!"

The man whirled, gun swinging through the air to focus on House and in that second, he knew he was dead. _Dammit Wilson, better appreciate-_

A white blur lunged across his field of vision. The weapon's barrel swung up even as a bullet crashed into the wall mere inches from House's head, the noise from the shot dropping him to his knees. His right thigh screamed protest, curling him over in agony until his forehead touched the floor.

A pained grunt pulled House's eyes up, in time to see wild fists striking the body beneath the white doctor's coat even as Wilson kicked out hard, shin snapping into the gunman's knee as the oncologist wrestled to keep the weapon pointed upwards. The man staggered, a cry bursting free, and with a wrenching twist Wilson yanked the gun away.

House stared, dumbfounded. Wilson delivered a brutal kick to the man's other knee, the sickening crunch of bone and cartilage putting the former gunman in a writhing heap on the floor. The gun had somehow reversed itself in the oncologists' hands, finding unerring aim on the blubbering piece of humanity that seconds ago had been about to kill someone. _Me. Was going to kill me._

"Brenda, call security. Anne, check on him -" the brown-haired head tilted toward the downed guard, "- and Jan, check House. Get a trauma team here, now!"

_What the hell –_ Wilson wasn't even breathing hard. Nurses scattered in all directions, even as the oncologist's voice rose over a sudden babble of voices, telling everyone to stay calm, everything was under control. House fumbled in one pocket for his Vicodin as a nurse crouched at his side.

"Dr. House? Are you all right?"

"No," he snarled, pain rearing up to sink claws deep into his thigh. Blue eyes never left the oncologist, whose attention refused to waver from the man screaming on the clinic's floor. "But I'm not shot."

Fingers grasped smooth plastic – he wrenched the lid free, spilling pills into his palm. Two hit his tongue, and House swallowed desperately. He couldn't _think_ through the slashing agony, words and ideas chasing through his brain without any tangible connective thread. House could only huddle against linoleum as a trauma team rushed the – dead? dying? – security guard away; as more security forces pushed through milling bodies to clamp restraints on the shrieking junkie and take the gun from Wilson.

And then his friend was _right there,_ familiar hands skimming over his body, brown eyes closing in relief. _Checking for the bullet wound. _"House? You okay?"

His brain stuttered, jump-starting to life. House blinked, a tiny part of his brain muttering, _Cool._ "What. The. Hell?"

* * *

"The great Greg House, at a loss for words," Wilson said wryly. _White knuckles, tight mouth. C'mon, House, give me a number._ "I may have to mark this day on my calendar."

House exploded. "You _idiot!_" One hand scrabbled for the cane, the other used as leverage as the diagnostician twisted to bring his legs out from under his body. "Who do you think you are? Double-oh seven?! Only a complete and utter _moron_ jumps with a junkie with a gun! You – you -"

The nurse, Jan, sat back with a raised eyebrow; Wilson nodded. She popped to her feet and disappeared into the nearby crowd, clearly grateful for the escape. The oncologist quietly assessed his friend again, matching what he saw to an internal catalogue of the agony he'd seen on House's face at various points in the last six years. _He's at a nine. Okay. Pain level incredibly high, but House's scale goes to eleven and he's taken a Vicodin. Get him somewhere quiet, elevate the leg, maybe a heat-pack, and we can keep from hitting the top of the scale today. _

"- you – _idiot!_"

"Careful," Wilson fought the smile tugging at his lips. One arm around House's waist, the other free in case he needed to brace or catch his friend. "Wouldn't want to repeat yourself. People might think you're losing your touch."

"Better than _losing my mind,_" House snapped back, arm wrapped around Wilson's neck and hand fisted in the collar of his white coat, the other gripping House's cane. Getting the diagnostician to his feet was a smoother process than any observer might assume; Wilson had been used as a human crutch countless times before. "Now everyone knows what I've suspected for years: you're insane."

"I was the closest person," Wilson pointed out, a touch of annoyance coloring the words. He could feel his temper rising, and took a deep breath to stave off the eruption. "I had to do something. Especially when _someone_ decided to startle a junkie with a hair-trigger and a semi-automatic! He tried to _shoot you,_ House!"

"Missed," was the glib response. House loosened his grip a little, but didn't let go; Wilson was absurdly grateful for the not-quite-necessary contact. The first step was slow, painstaking. "He had the shakes and I was fifteen feet away; no way was he going to make that shot. But he wouldn't have missed you; you were close enough to spit on! Might have to get you the rabies series, the way he was slobbering all over -"

"He wasn't going to shoot me, House."

Someone at the entrance to the hospital lobby saw them coming, and was kind enough to prop open the doors so they could make their careful way through. _Get to House's office, then see to his leg._ The dubious privacy offered by House's fishbowl of an office was the only place other than his apartment that Wilson had a prayer of persuading the diagnostician to let someone else check over the old injury.

His friend, however, wasn't done. Their multi-legged, leaning hobble down the hallway was fast enough that they'd probably beat out all other contenders in a sack-race, but the pace at which House was hurling out words put their physical speed to shame. "He was high, he was suffering from violent tremors, he had – as previously stated by an oncologist standing not a hundred miles from here – a hair trigger temper, and you were three feet away! He couldn't miss!"

Wilson rolled his eyes, leaning his friend carefully against the wall before reaching for the elevator call button. "Your talent for pissing off nearly everyone in a room in under five minutes is practically a guarantee that he would have gotten fed up and shot you before I was in any danger at all! Oh wait a minute, let me think – he _did!_"

"Didn't," House hopped into the elevator car when it arrived, hands clamping on the assistive rails. Wilson was right on his heels. _At least he didn't stick out his tongue._

"Three inches from your left ear, House." Wilson would be seeing that near-miss in his sleep every night for a month. _He hit the ground, and I thought he was dead. _"Three inches." The elevator doors closed behind them with a quiet _ding!_

"Almost only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and broad-spectrum antibiotics."

Gravity pulled gently with the elevator's upward shift, and Wilson felt his jaw unhinge. Generic classical music filled the space between them as the oncologist struggled for words. "I don't know what's worse, the blatant disregard for your own safety or the dubious application of that adage to the field of medicine."

House talked right over him as the elevator leveled at the third floor, doors sliding smoothly open. _Nothing new there._ "Besides, he was more likely to get fed up with your sharing and caring routine before I had the chance to piss him off. You were going to get shot first."

"Hmm, let me see: shoot someone who's trying to accommodate you, or someone who's verbally poking you with a sharp stick? There's a tough decision." The oncologist held up both hands as if they were pans on a scale, wavering up and down as he weighed each option. It was lost on House, busy exiting the elevator. "It would have been you." Wilson rolled his eyes, following right at his friend's shoulder as the diagnostician limped down the hall. "What am I saying? It _was_ you!"

"Only because I distracted him," House countered. He swung his office door open, leaving Wilson no choice but to grab it if he wanted to keep from being smacked in the face by a solid sheet of glass. Shocked by the abrupt conversational turn-around, he cut it close enough that his nose grazed the _M_ of _Dr. Gregory House, M.D._ before his fingers locked on the door handle.

Finding his feet, the oncologist sputtered as he trailed House into his office. Glass swung soundlessly shut behind them. "That's my point!"

House had to reach a bit to slide closed the first set of blinds. "If I hadn't, smart money says he would have shot you first."

Wilson glared, hands propped on hips. "Right now, _I_ want to shoot you."

"It's that whole soothing demeanor," House shrugged, settling into the armchair hidden in the most secluded corner of his office. Both hands wrapped around the damaged thigh, massaging carefully as he lifted his leg onto the footrest. "Clashes with 'crazy'."

"Whereas 'blatant aggravation' blends so well." Wilson threw up his hands, but went to pull the blinds on each of the other three walls to give them some sort of privacy.

"Tell you what. Fifty bucks if the next gunman who walks into the hospital tries to shoot you first." Intense blue eyes were locked on him, a smirk on House's lips even as his fingers dug into the flesh of his thigh.

Wilson's heart turned into a lump of ice; he laughed a little, covering his sudden unease. "The next gunman. Right." _If that happens, I'll have bigger problems than losing a bet, House._ But entirely without knowing it, the diagnostician had backed him into a corner with no way out but acquiescence. "Fine. You're on."

* * *

"Dr. Cuddy?"

Blue uniforms with black trim, gold buttons gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through her office blinds. The holsters just clinched it. _Cops. I have cops in my office. Damn it, House, what the _hell _have you gotten into now?_

Dredging up a serene smile from somewhere, Lisa put down her pen and folded her hands over the scattering of paperwork on her desk blotter. "Can I help you?"

The policeman stepped into her office, accompanied by a woman similarly uniformed. "I'm Officer Ralston, this is Officer Baines," his voice was deep and appealing. Tall, dark, and not bad looking, though all that took a back seat to the businesslike attitude she was presented with. "We are attempting to locate two of your staff, a Dr. House and a Dr. Wilson?"

Princeton-Plainsboro's very own partners in crime. _I knew it. _Validation was more exhausting than sweet, however. Lisa pushed to her feet, smoothing down her skirt and ignoring the disarray on her desk. "Regarding?" _I'm going to have to call down to Levine, get him up here. _

The officers exchanged a puzzled glance. "The – ah, incident, in the hospital clinic, this morning?" Baines offered. It wasn't even eleven.

_He's finally done it. The patient didn't even bother to complain to the administration, they went straight to the police. _"I'm sorry," she tried politely. _Minimize, minimize. We're going to have to settle again. _"I wasn't aware that there was a situation requiring police attention."

It was apparently the wrong thing to say; Ralston frowned darkly. "You – weren't aware – that a drug addict armed with a gun held up this hospital's clinic, not fifteen minutes ago?"

_Good response time._ Then their words sunk in, and Lisa felt her eyes widen. She braced herself against the edge of the desk, mind whirling. _House wouldn't –_ then again, she'd seen some of the schemes he'd pulled in the past. "Officers, I can assure you that whatever else he may have done, Dr. House would never endanger anyone." _Not with a gun at least. I hope._

The officers were wearing identical expressions of confusion at this point. "No," Baines stepped forward. While not as tall as her partner, it was clear even across the length of the office that she had almost a foot of height on Princeton-Plainsboro's diminutive head administrator. "The gunman's name is Kermit Whelan. He's currently in custody in the ER."

_The ER?_ Lisa's brain latched onto that tidbit like a sailor clinging to driftwood in rough seas. _There was a gunman in the clinic – how did I not hear about this -_

Baines was still speaking. "- Dr. House and Dr. Wilson were the physicians attending the clinic this morning. According to witness accounts, Dr. Wilson subdued the gunman and Dr. House narrowly avoided being shot. We need to take their statements so that we can charge Whelan appropriately."

_House was almost shot? And Wilson calmed the gunman?_ It was strange how easily she could believe it. Lisa shook her head abruptly, still processing as she rounded her desk. _Call Levine, just in case. When the press finds out about this -_ "Was anyone hurt?"

_Please, please don't let anyone have been –_

"Yes."

Lisa's hands went cold. She could feel sweat gathering under her arms and on her palms. _Adonai . . ._

"The security guard on duty in the clinic was shot when Whelan first entered." Ralston flipped through his notepad briefly, searching for the name. "Brian Markey. He's being treated in the ER by a Dr. Chase, who was quite clear that we needed to find someone else to question at the time."

_Not good._ She couldn't remember the specifics of his file, but the majority of their security forces had been with the hospital for years, and lived locally with their families. _Levine. Now._ "Excuse me a moment," Lisa reached for the phone. "I need to call the hospital attorney."

Ralston looked up from his notes. "That's really not necessary -"

"If one of my employees was injured on hospital property, there are several legal matters this hospital needs to make certain are handled appropriately," Lisa countered, punching in Levine's extension. Anger burned in her veins, behind her eyes. "Especially should Mr. Markey or his family wish to press charges against Mr. Whelan."

A few words into the phone's receiver assured her that Levine would be in her office in under five minutes. She disconnected the line, and twisted far enough to make eye contact with each officer in turn. "You needed to speak with Dr. House?"

"And Dr. Wilson," Baines reminded her.

"Of course," Lisa turned back to the phone. "I know just where to find them."

She wasn't surprised in the slightest when the Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro answered the direct line to the Diagnostics Department. House had fallen badly, and wasn't going anywhere. _At least he can't run away._ She didn't envy the cops their task of wading through House's vitriol to get a statement. Lisa gave them clear directions to the Diagnostics Department, smiled as they left, and didn't doubt that they'd be back to complain. _In an hour, if I'm lucky._

She was going to need more than that with Levine to define the repercussions of this event for the hospital. _But first I need a clear picture of what actually happened._ Which depended on the police report, which depended on her doctors' statements, which led right back to House again. _And I need to find out why I didn't hear about this the minute it happened._

Lisa took a calming breath, letting the warm sunshine soak into her body for the minute or two of peace she had before the attorney knocked on her door.

_It's going to be a long day._

* * *

"His name is Kermit?" Foreman could feel amusement rising fast, and tried to suppress it with a rich sip of coffee. Laughter didn't seem appropriate, especially with a member of the hospital support staff in the ICU fighting for his life, but still. "Really?" _That's bizarre. And ironic._

"Really." House threw the gray-red tennis ball again, sending vibrations through the glass dividing wall the neurologist was propped against. "Child abuse takes many forms."

_Thump._

The glass at his back shuddered.

Foreman glared halfheartedly at his boss, and predictably, was ignored.

_'They're bullies, baby. Ignore them, and they'll go away.' _His mother's advice hadn't ever really worked on House. But then, House wasn't really a bully. _Just an egomaniac._ Whatever. If Foreman had tried to ignore him, it would have just pushed him to work harder to get a response. In the interest of keeping the peace with all four of them stuck in House's office until the cops were done getting Wilson's statement, Foreman decided it was easier to be boring and predictable to maintain the status quo.

"Child abuse? The guy has a weird first name. So what?" Chase obviously hadn't caught the reference. A glance up showed that the Australian had abandoned his crossword for the moment, instead staring out at the three people arrayed around the Diagnostics conference room's glass table. Foreman didn't turn and look. _They've been at it for almost half an hour._ _They've gotta be done soon._

"Ah, the wonders of American educational television. Cameron, google the Muppets. Let the wombat in on our little cultural secret. YouTube should clear it up for him right away, and give him a few clues why little Kermit Whelan never wanted to go play with the other kids during recess." House was almost cackling; he threw the tennis ball again.

_Thump._

Foreman shook his head.

By virtue of being the only one wearing a skirt, Cameron had gotten the only other chair in the room. Situated behind House's desk, that meant she also got the computer and internet access. _Not that she needs it when all she's doing is House's mail._

Chase was already up, stretching a little before heading over to the desk. Foreman watched, interested, as the two other fellows awkwardly juggled their personal space. _Too obvious. Get a room._

He waited for House to say something, but the comment never came.

A knock on the door told him why; Dr. Wilson poked his head in. "M'finished. Your turn."

"That was quick," House observed.

Foreman shuffled his journals into a pile, grunting as he stood. _Ugh, stiff._ Half an hour on a cement floor thinly concealed by rough, unpadded carpet hadn't done him any favors.

"Not much to tell." The neurologist could practically hear the shrug. Foreman bent, gathering up his journals and notes, mind jumping ahead. _A real chair. Finally._

"Oh, now you're just being modest," his boss simpered. Foreman glanced at House and immediately wished he hadn't. _Okay. That expression's just disturbing._

Wilson was still leaning in the doorway, making it impossible for any of House's fellows to get past him and leave. His face was perfectly straight. "I'm surprised you even know what the word means."

Foreman smirked at that.

"What?" Cameron, distracted from sorting through bills and junk mail, was peering through her glasses at the two men. _And Chase is still watching a clip from YouTube._ _Typical._ "What happened?" she asked again.

"Mild-mannered oncologist by day, ass-kicking ninja by night." House was bouncing the tennis ball from hand to hand, but apparently had given up on chucking it at the wall for the moment. _Probably because you can't obnoxiously interrupt a police interview if it's over._

Dr. Wilson snorted. "Right. Leaping tall buildings in a single bound. That's me. Must have left my cape at the dry-cleaner's today."

Foreman took in the pristine white coat, ironed shirt, tie, pressed slacks, and impeccable shoes. _Uh-huh._ He shifted his journals to the other arm, reaching for his coffee mug and scanning the floor to make sure he hadn't lost a pen or left any of his notes behind.

"Wilson kneecapped him," House whispered conspiratorially.

_He did?_ Foreman felt his brows rise in interest. Dr. Wilson wasn't the sort of person you imagined as capable of purposefully inflicting physical harm on someone. "Huh." _Well, the guy had a gun and was high, probably going to shoot someone._ _Someone innocent,_ he amended, with a look at his boss. "Good."

"Good?!" Cameron pushed out of the chair, stalking across the office. "If you destroyed his knee, he'll never walk again. He'll be crippled for life!"

"I know."

Foreman stared.

Dr. Wilson had straightened, and pinned Cameron with a hard stare that he'd never seen from the other man, even when fighting for his patients.

"He probably won't walk again, because I crushed his patella," Dr. Wilson said brutally. "The bone shards ground into the anterior crucate ligament and meniscus. If he gets a very skilled surgeon and works hard at PT, the leg might support his weight in six to eight months. The soft-tissue damage means he'll never bend that knee again without pain. _And I'd do it again._"

Cameron's face was deadly pale; Foreman could barely hear her whisper. "How can you say that?"

"Cameron." Dr. Wilson's eyes were impenetrable. _I don't think I've ever met this man,_ Foreman realized. The oncologist's voice was low, but it was the only sound in the room. Even Chase's attention had been pulled from the computer screen.

"He had a gun, and his hands were shaking. Badly. I didn't want to die. And I didn't want House to die. Or any of the nurses. Or the woman with twin toddlers, or the two college students there with their friend, who was pregnant and flipping out. Or the senior citizen sitting in the back, or the middle-aged guy who was missing his lunch hour. This man endangered everyone there, for a prescription for Percocet."

Cameron was shaking her head. "First, do no harm," she responded, subdued but still fighting. _That's Cameron all over. Trying to fight other people's battles for them, and never knowing when to quit._ Foreman rolled his eyes. _She's missing the point._

"I will preserve the purity of my life and my arts," Dr. Wilson quoted back.

"There must have been a better way," Cameron insisted stubbornly.

Dr. Wilson actually laughed at that. "When you think of one, let me know." Those dark eyes looked past them all, locking on the man still ensconced in the corner chair. "Meet you for lunch when you're done in here?"

Foreman looked back in time to catch House's nod.

"Good. You're paying." With that, the oncologist left.

"Wow," Chase whistled, stepping out from behind the desk. "I don't think I've ever seen Dr. Wilson that angry."

"He should be angry," Cameron retorted. Heels were silent on carpet as she strode to the door. "He was wrong."

_God, she's blind._ "No he wasn't," Foreman objected. "If the choice comes down to saving your life and those of your patients or hurting some whack-job who's trying to kill you, I say take the psycho out and don't look back."

"You would," she muttered.

_What the- _Anger overrode whatever restraint he'd been exercising up to this point. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Whelan is addicted to Percocet," Cameron felt she had to point out. _And dodging the straight answer. What is her problem?_

"Yeah, I caught that," Foreman snapped back. "It's not an excuse."

"He was desperate, and not thinking clearly. He's not responsible -"

"Oh, yes he is," House interrupted, irritation spilling from every syllable. The _clatter_ of Vicodin pills in a prescription bottle resounded through the office. "He knew exactly what he was doing. Take it from someone who knows."

Cameron wasn't any good at hiding what she was feeling. Foreman could read betrayal in her green eyes, and huffed in exasperation. Schoolgirl crushes were really annoying to watch, especially when you were stuck in the same room with them.

_And she's gone._

"Wait, Cameron -" _And there goes Chase._

He wanted to be in the Diagnostics Department at Princeton-Plainsboro, he wanted to learn from the best. But sometimes it turned his life into a soap opera worthy of HBO's prime time. _Unbelievable._ Foreman eyed the door. If he switched his papers to the other arm and held the mug in that hand, he could open the door without spilling coffee all over himself and his notes. Probably.

"He's not angry," House murmured to himself, peering after the figure that had vanished down the hall.

_Dr. Wilson is House's friend, so I guess he would know._ Still. "Sure looked like anger to me," Foreman pointed out. Shifting his papers to the other arm did indeed result in a free hand, and he reached for the door.

"Yeah, well, you're wrong."

The neurologist sighed, fed up already. _What's the point in arguing about this? Who cares?_ He held the door for the cops, shifting aside to let them into House's office. "If he's not pissed, then what is it?"

Blue eyes were still staring after Dr. Wilson, even though he'd long since disappeared from sight into his office. "I don't know."

* * *

**A/N:** Please note, as of June 6 I have edited this chapter and changed the names of the oldest and youngest Wilson brothers from Daniel and Peter to David and Michael, respectively. So now, the Wilson brothers are, oldest to youngest, David, James and Michael.


	2. Chapter 2

House eyed the window, wincing as freezing rain pounded the panes. _Another beautiful day in New Jersey. _This time last year he'd been able to pull his bike out of storage and take advantage of the rare few warm, sunny days. _So much for that. Duty calls._

He barged into Cuddy's office, shoving the door open as abruptly as possible. _God, I hope I'm interrupting something. _"You summoned me?"

Cuddy didn't even look up from her paperwork. Which was nice, as it gave him a perfect view straight down her shirt practically to her navel. He was almost too far away to appreciate it properly, but his vision was excellent. _Not what my mother meant when she forced me to eat all my vegetables._ House was almost distracted enough to miss the argument's opening salvo, but Cuddy's words were loud enough to break through the breasts-on-brain barrier. "I need you to talk to Dr. Wilson."

_Damn. She was expecting me._ It might have had something to do with the voicemail waiting on his office answering machine that threatened him with a week of eight-hour days in the clinic if he didn't show his face as soon as he got in, but still. Next time he was going to have to try harder. _Megaphone, maybe._ _Or balloons. Balloons might do it._ House slowed his pace, meandering between the two plush, patterned couches lining the center of Cuddy's office for the express purpose of kissing donors' asses. "I do that every day. What makes this a command from on high, rather than a social visit?"

"The press got wind of the incident in the clinic yesterday." Cuddy finally put down her pen, sitting back in her chair. House took a minute to enjoy what the change in posture did for her cleavage.

"Incident. Sounds so . . . sterile. No one would ever guess that someone got killed." He headed for the bookshelf set against the side wall. If he had to listen to Cuddy nattering in one ear, he might as well have something different to look at. _Man cannot live on breasts alone. Shame. At least it pisses her off when she thinks she's being ignored._

He turned in time to note that his little jab almost got a sigh and the heaving bosoms that went with it. Cuddy frowned at him, arms folded under her breasts. The front of her jacket gaped, ever so slightly, with the movement. _Just as good._ "Brian Markey isn't dead."

_Sucks to be him. _The shelves were actually quite comfortable to lean against, but the ache in his leg demanded movement. House dragged the rubber tip of his cane against plush carpeting, wiping off some of the accumulated dirt and grime that came with vigorous use. It left a lovely grayish brown streak. "Oh, excuse me. I thought that full life support, ventilation, and complete brain death qualified someone as actually dead. Wait, no, you're right, his heart's still beating so he _must _be alive. I'm going to have to update my definition."

Typically, when Cuddy didn't want to engage, she changed the subject. Her elbows hit the desk as she leant forward. House paced around the couch back to the center of the room, hoping for a better view.

"Look. I've had a dozen calls from different news stations that want to interview Dr. Wilson, as the man who overpowered the gunman." Cuddy shook back long, dark locks at that, disbelief written all over her face. "I've seen the security tapes, and I still barely believe it."

"Then you don't know him." _Hell, I know him and I didn't think he could do – that. Attack someone who threatened him, or me, or his patients? Yeah. Actually kick their ass? That would be a no._ But House would do nothing but clinic work for a month before he'd admit it.

"Yeah, well, the press want to know him."

_Okay, and . . . ? _"So where exactly do I come into this equation? The press want to interview me too, as the guy who almost got shot?" The potential there was _endless._ House tried to stifle a grin, but from the suspicious stare Cuddy gave him, he hadn't done a particularly good job.

"I wouldn't let them if they did," his boss snorted. It was a bit irritating how perfectly composed she was, not even fiddling with any of the stuff on her desk. "No. Dr. Wilson refused to have anything to do with the press. Won't take their calls, or even think about talking to them."

"So release the security tapes and tell them he's camera-shy," House planted himself in the center of the carpet, rocking back and forth gently on his good leg. _I need to get a patient. At least then I could time my pager to go off after seven minutes to give me a quick out._

"I can't." Cuddy's eyes dropped to her hands, fingers twisting together just the slightest bit.

_Huh. Unusual._ "Why not? Blur the faces out. It'll protect the privacy of the clinic patients, give the press their pound of flesh, get the hospital good publicity, and the tapes are hospital property. It's not like anyone can sue you for -" Cuddy's face remained perfectly blank, and House tripped over his own words. _No way._ "Wilson threatened to sue if you released the security tapes?"

"No," she snapped, spine straightening. Defiant blue eyes met his own.

_Methink the lady doth protest too much._ House smirked at her knowingly. His leg ached. The diagnostician paced to between the couches for a short moment, glancing at rain-spattered windows.

"Not threatened, exactly," Cuddy muttered defensively. "It's Dr. Wilson. He's never threatened anyone in his life. He just hinted, strongly, that if the hospital didn't feel the need to honor his employment contract and protect his privacy, he'd take the steps to ensure it."

A chuckle broke free; House ignored the laserlike glare that flashed his way. _God, to be a fly on that wall._ "Go Wilson," he murmured.

"And then he mentioned a college friend of his who's at Sloan-Kettering, starting an interesting new clinical trial, and looking for a co-writer for the paper."

_He actually threatened to quit? _Now that was interesting. It took a lot to push Wilson to desperation, but this was classic of a man on the edge lashing out to protect himself however he could. _And co-authoring a paper's a pretty flimsy excuse; he could do that from here, if he really wanted to. _House refused to acknowledge the trickle of unease slipping through the back of his brain. _He wouldn't._ Wilson was attached to his job and his practice in Princeton, as evidenced by his distress when Vogler forced him to resign. _He wouldn't. _But when House opened his mouth, all that came out was a weak, "Sloan-Kettering's not hiring."

Blue eyes rolled; the rain pounding the windows behind Cuddy was lessening. "Dr. Wilson is one of the top oncologists on the east coast. For doctors with his qualifications, Sloan-Kettering is always hiring."

That barb bypassed his armor, worming in through a chink he hadn't even known was there. House glared, almost stomping the three steps between the two couches. "Fine. Whatever. You want to take advantage of the brain-dead security guy and kneecapped druggie who invaded the clinic by pimping Wilson out to the press. Only he won't let you. What do you want me to do about it?"

Pure exasperation drove Cuddy to her feet and out from behind her desk. _Hunters have it all wrong. You don't lure prey out into the open. You harass it into abandoning cover._

House kept going through the smile that wanted to give the game away. _I love winning._ "You think I can talk him into it? You're the one who signs his paychecks. I'm just the questionable colleague who hits him up for narcotics prescriptions." _Kinda like -_

"It's a shock he hasn't kneecapped you yet." Cuddy stalked right up to him, every line of her body declaring a challenge. "What's it worth to you?"

"That depends," House leant forward, using his height to his advantage. Unfortunately, Lisa Cuddy hadn't become one of the three women running internationally-known, top American hospitals by being easily intimidated. "What kind of offer's on the table?"

Blue eyes sized him up. House waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and was rewarded by an irritated sigh. _And cue the heaving bosoms. Sweet._

"Six weeks off the clinic duty you owe," she said at last.

_Huh._ More than a little smiling for the cameras was worth. Still, if she wanted it badly enough to give up twenty-four clinic-hours, he could definitely work her for more. "2054," House reminded her. "I won't be caught up until 2054. A couple of measly months off that amount is like a drop of rain in the ocean. Unnoticeable. A few years off the end tally, though . . . that might get my attention."

"Yeah, right," Cuddy laughed, turning her back on him and striding confidently to her desk. The view from behind was pretty good, too. "If you did six hours a week in the clinic, you'd be done in 2037. Amazing what a little extra pain and suffering will get you."

_Right. I wouldn't know anything about pain and suffering. _Bitterness shot through him, and House reached for a Vicodin. Even the power of Cuddy's curves couldn't counter the massive turn-off that was clinic duty. "Three months," he bargained. The diagnostician smacked his cane on the carpet thoughtfully, and swallowed the pill dry. "If I talk to him about it."

"Three weeks," Cuddy shot back, ensconced behind her desk once more. "And only if you get him to agree to an interview."

_Like that'll happen._ The way Wilson was apparently acting about this whole press thing, House would be lucky to broach the subject and leave the conversation with both knees intact. "Six weeks for talking to him about it, and six more if I get him to interview." No real chance that Cuddy would miss the fact that two six-week periods added up to the three months he'd offered in the beginning, but he had to try. _She's just going to cut it in half anyway. _

"Three weeks off for talking to him about it. Plus one more week for the interview."

The diagnostician could read the look in those blue eyes; that was as high as Cuddy was going to go without scrapping the idea entirely. _But it's three weeks free of clinic duty for nothing. More, if I can just prod Wilson into blow-drying his hair for the five o'clock news._ House knew where the bodies were buried; the oncologist would fold. "Make that week a month and you've got a deal."

"Done."

_That was too easy._ Well, Cuddy had tried and failed to get Wilson to do the interview, that would account for it. The diagnostician nodded, limping for the exit.

"And House?" He turned and blinked; Cuddy's smile showed too many teeth. _Makes her look like a snake about to strike._ "I _will_ be checking with Wilson."

House waited until he was at the door before replying, matching her condescension tone for tone. "Oh, Cuddy? I _will_ be collecting hazard pay."

He let the door cut off her sputtering reply.

* * *

_What a waste. Drive half an hour through traffic and crappy weather to sit in a glass box and do nothing. _Chase worked a finger into the knot of his tie, tugging just enough to loosen it. "I'm bored."

"Run out of crosswords?" Cameron asked absently. She'd returned to sorting through House's mail after abandoning it during yesterday's debate. For some reason, she'd been at it for the last three hours and _still_ wasn't done.

Foreman didn't respond, scrawling notes on a pad of paper as he compared journal articles from two different issues of the _Journal of Neurology, Neurosurgery and Psychiatry_.

"We haven't had a case in two weeks," Chase grumbled, tapping his nails against the glass tabletop. Foreman's scribbling pen slowed at the noise and vibrations, and Chase smirked, then stopped. He didn't dislike Foreman, really. The other doctor was just occasionally easy to rile. _And we have to work together for who knows how many years . . . _He'd finished his book of sudoku puzzles too, after spending two days assisting in the NICU.

Cameron didn't look up from the piles of subscription renewals, bills, local mail, and junk she'd separated out on the table. "What about the man who came in last week?"

The Australian snorted. "It doesn't count as a case if House looks at the symptoms and figures out what it is in fifteen minutes, then ridicules all our ideas for two hours without letting us do any tests to find out what's the matter."

"He could have been wrong," Foreman pointed out. "The last appreciable outbreak of cholera in the United States was in 1910. It's been practically eradicated here."

Chase glanced at the neurologist incredulously. "House bet a week's worth of clinic-hours on it, right after hearing that the man had just come back from a trip to India." Also after he'd given his fellows free reign to run their tests and practically dared them to diagnose the patient for themselves. "He never bets with clinic hours, not unless he's absolutely certain he's right." Chase was still kicking himself for not making that connection earlier.

"He's been certain before, and he's been wrong before." But Foreman had picked up his pen again, clearly unwilling to be drawn into a debate about their boss. Most of their "discussions" about House were well-worn ground anyway. Cameron's crush meant she flavored the subject with a good dose of hero worship, Foreman made it clear that respect and dislike could be kept entirely separate while being simultaneously applied, and Chase personally admired the man, even if he did acknowledge that House was occasionally mistaken. _But he's usually right in the end._

And House was the best in the States, quite possibly the best in the world, at what he did. _Isn't that why we're all here? To learn from the best?_

Not that there was any learning going on now, unless Chase counted learning how long it took for boredom to drive him into the bughouse. "I'm gonna go to the ER. See if I can find us a patient."

"Since when has the ER gotten us a case?" Foreman. Again.

"A few times," Chase said defensively. "The kid with the gout medicine overdose."

Cameron looked thoughtful; Foreman blinked and shook his head. "No, remember, it was one of the first dozen or so cases we did. The girlfriend thought she rode him to death, remember?" He, at least, wouldn't be forgetting _that_ any time soon. _Or Cameron's sex talk –_

"Oh, right." Foreman paused. "So that's one. Any others?"

_Arse._

"You'd probably have a better shot in the clinic," Cameron suggested. She'd finally looked up from the post, wisps of hair escaping her ponytail and prettily framing her face. The glasses somehow only added to that.

"After a security guard got shot there yesterday? Anyone with half a brain is going somewhere else." Then he realized what she was actually suggesting. _Unbelievable._ But then again, he was talking to Cameron. "Oh, no. I'm not doing House's clinic-hours for him. Not this week. I'm behind on my own."

"Really?" Foreman didn't look interested at all, but apparently Chase's decision to actually do something other than twiddle his thumbs rated more highly than whatever critique he was composing. "Hot date?"

_I wish._ "Yeah, with a centrifuge," Chase muttered. Staying late to do enough tests to prove House wrong while he waited for the cholera bacterial cultures to grow definitely had its downsides. Then he'd refused to believe it until he'd been able to enrich the stool sample for microscopy, and cross-confirm. _"There's persistence, and then there's stupidity," _House had snapped. _"Learn the difference."_

"Good luck," Cameron turned back to the letters.

"What, you don't want to come?" Chase was a little surprised. _She'd really rather sit here and do House's mail?_

"I spent all of yesterday in the ER," the immunologist shrugged. "Besides, what if House -"

_Oh, come on._ "That's what pagers are for," Chase interrupted. "Fine. I'll go find us a patient."

"Twenty bucks House finds a case before you do." Foreman's face was tucked in his journals again, and unlikely to surface for hours.

_We've had loads of cases come to us through the ER!_ Indignant, Chase stalked to the door. "I'll take that bet. And after we've solved it, drinks are on you."

* * *

"I hear Sloan-Kettering's always hiring."

"House." Wilson shut his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and steadied the biopsy needle three short inches from piercing skin. _I can't tell whether his timing is unbelievably good or it just really, really sucks. _"Thank you for waiting until I was done with the _only_ minor surgery on my schedule today," he said sardonically. "Wouldn't want to startle me just as I'm about to insert a rather large needle into an anesthetized patient's abdomen."

"You have steady hands. You can take it." Lean and looming, House appeared behind the nurse operating the ultrasound machine, across the patient's bed from Wilson. With a nudge and a not-so-gentle shove, the diagnostician took the transducer probe right out of her hand. _Mask, gown, gloves. At least he scrubbed in._

Wilson glanced from the screen, where the image of the liver cyst barely wavered, and nodded to dismiss the nurse. She retreated to a corner of the room, still available if the need arose. "Huh. I think there might have been a compliment in there somewhere, but what with almost stabbing my patient, I might have missed it."

Blue eyes rolled, but the image on the ultrasound screen never shifted. "You're going to stab him anyway. Just do it, already."

Wilson opened his mouth, paused, then reconsidered. "True." He switched his attention from diagnostician to biopsy needle. A smooth push took him through epidermis and muscle wall to the liver, and a continual, gentle shift in angles brought the tip in contact with the growth. "You talked to Cuddy."

"Yeah." House didn't say anything as Wilson carefully collected his sample and withdrew the needle. _Paul McNabb, age 52, Stage II lung cancer._ This cyst was either a benign growth or evidence that the cancer had metastasized to Paul's liver. As he was caring for the puncture wound, the diagnostician roughly cleared his throat. "So -"

"This is about the media, isn't it." Anger bubbled up again, but it was old and familiar by now, and already half-transformed into quiet determination. The oncologist yanked latex from his hands with a sharp _snap!_ and tossed both gloves into the trash. He motioned the nurse back to Paul's side, officially handing him off to her for recovery. "What'd she give you to talk me into it?"

House glanced down, fiddling with his cane. "A month off clinic duty."

_Cuddy actually agreed to that?_ "Well, sorry to disappoint." Wilson pulled the mask from his face as he swung through the OR doors. Rhythmic thumping followed at his side.

"Eh," House's voice was carefree. "I get an extra three weeks just for talking about it."

"Then leave it at that. I wasn't kidding about Thomas' offer." A moment's twisting freed him from the surgical gown. It went into the clearly marked biohazard bin. Wilson paused at one of the many sinks lining the room, starting to scrub out as House wriggled free of his own gown and mask.

Over the rush of another tap opening, Wilson could make out House's next comment. "Thomas? That the name of the doctor trying to lure you out of Princeton?"

_Lure?_ Wilson smothered a grin. _As if._ "Thomas Paquet." Drying his hands, he turned the water off with the used wad of paper towels, and began rolling his sleeves back down.

House rinsed the last of the lather from his skin, forearms twisting under the hot spray. "I thought you didn't trust anything the French said."

A laugh burst free at that. "Generally, no. But I've known Thomas since our sophomore year of undergrad. And he's French-Canadian." Wilson finished buttoning his cuffs and headed for the hallway, his pace one that House could easily match.

"Practically British." A lump of wet paper-towels shot past Wilson on the right, dropping obediently into the open trash bin on a janitor's cart that had been shoved against the wall, out of the way. "That's a little better, but not much."

"Not according to the French-Canadians." This close to lunchtime, the hallways were a little more busy than usual. Staff and patients streamed by, heading to and from different departments within the hospital.

House paused. "What, being better or being British?"

"British," Wilson clarified. He sidestepped a wheelchair, smiling at the nurse and occupant, who had one hand on the accompanying IV pole.

"They've got the Queen on their money." Limping ahead, House beat him to the elevator call button. "It's the same principle as Australia."

"This conversation is mind-numbingly familiar." Wilson used an arm to hold back the elevator doors as what seemed like half the people riding in the car disembarked. It still looked uncomfortably full. He followed House on regardless, carefully sidestepping his cane in the cramped space.

"You might want to give us some room," House stage-whispered to the people closest. He jerked a thumb in Wilson's direction. "He lost his temper yesterday, actually kneecapped a guy who came in here. Word from Orthopedics is the guy might not walk for a year."

A couple of people eyed the oncologist warily.

Wilson stifled a groan. "Don't worry, Mr. Jones. Your new medication should start to control the delusions after a few days."

"What about my manic episodes and violent outbreaks?" House whined, taking the cue and running with it. "They're usually brought on by my extreme claustrophobia. God, it's a tight squeeze in here -"

The other occupants of the elevator were almost plastered to the walls by this point. There was a good foot of empty space around the two doctors, in all directions. Wilson bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

One floor down they extricated themselves from the crush, exchanging victorious grins. The third-floor hallway was somewhat emptier than the upstairs; they made their way to their respective offices in a comfortable silence. A thought that had been sitting in the back of Wilson's mind surged forward when he saw the silver letters of his name on heavy wood.

"Hey." He paused in opened his office door, diverting House from continuing on to Diagnostics. "I have a referral for you. Let me get the file."

Once inside, Wilson pulled on his white coat and paced to his desk. The noise of cane hitting carpet, soft and distinct, told him House had indeed followed. One finger slid down his schedule for the day, checking off the biopsy. _Lab results before five._ _Patient meeting in ten minutes._

"Interesting."

Wilson's stomach dropped; that word, from House, never boded well. _Ah, hell._ His head dipped, fingers rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. The oncologist rubbed his forehead a moment, then risked a sideways glance.

Blue eyes had narrowed in on him. "Judging by the tie that breaks your usual weekly pattern, I'd say you didn't go home last night."

_That . . . wasn't what I expected. _"Why do you even notice these things?" Still, it wasn't the first time his choice of neckwear had prompted a dissertation on his actions or state of mind.

House just waited.

Wilson was, in fact, wearing one of the two business-professional outfits he kept in a bag in his car for overnight emergencies. "The press staked out my front lawn," he muttered, annoyed. "Julie called me, wanted to know what was going on. I told her, and decided to sleep here. Less hassle."

Long fingers twirled the cane perilously close to some of the knickknacks on the edge of Wilson's desk. The oncologist found himself the subject of House's scrutiny. "What's the real reason you don't want to do the interview?" his friend finally asked.

_My name, face, and location circulated on national television? I might as well put the gun in my mouth right now, and get it over with._ Wilson locked gazes with House's intense blue stare. If the diagnostician didn't let this go, or decided a month's worth of clinic hours and Wilson's secret were worth more than the consequences of whatever impediment Wilson could throw in his way, there were going to be problems that wouldn't be solved by smiles and smooth words. _Or even kneecapping. _"I know this might be difficult for you to understand, as someone who pokes, pries, and steals personal files to ferret out every last bit of information. But I want to keep my life private."

"True," House said after a moment. Being the sole focus of the other man's attention was unnerving. "But you didn't answer my question."

_That's the closest answer I can give. _It wouldn't be enough for House; nothing was, except the whole, gory mess of whatever truth he was seeking. Sometimes he could see his friend as an ancient oracle, slitting open animals' stomachs and poking through steamy entrails to read the future. Wilson abandoned his strategy for a different approach. "Everybody lies, right?"

Blue eyes turned wary. "Right."

"Why?"

"Why?" House sounded puzzled. "Because they're stupid. And think it doesn't matter -"

"No." Wilson was losing patience. _For a genius, House, sometimes you really need to buy a clue._ "People always lie for a reason. To deceive, conceal. Protect." He couldn't keep his gaze from skittering away. He studied the paperwork on his desk with more concentration than it deserved. "Themselves, others. From their mistakes, or stupidity -"

"From the truth," House corrected.

"Fine." The oncologist raised a quelling hand. "House. Just . . . think about that, for a bit. And – don't ask me again." His eyes dropped to the folders on his desk. "I don't want to lie." _But I will, if you make me._

That, at least, was the truth.

A glance up from under his lashes showed him a House who was lost in thought, cane slowly rotating. Hopefully that was enough to arrest his attention for awhile. _Maybe long enough for the press to lose interest._

The clock showed twenty minutes to one. Sifting through several sheaves of paper on his desk, the oncologist grabbed a blue folder tilted out of place among his pile of referrals.

"I have a patient coming in, in a minute. Here," Wilson held out the file. "Dr. Tresler wanted me to pass this on to you."

"Tresler?" House frowned. Wilson could almost see his train of thought changing rails. "The dermatologist?" Slyness slipped into the diagnostician's expression. He didn't touch the extended folder. "I'll take the case if you'll do the interview."

_Oh, I don't think so._ It was a last-ditch try, and House barely put any effort into it. But it wouldn't have been House if he'd let the opportunity pass by without a word. _Thanks, House. For not pushing. At least for now._ "You'll take the case because the patient is an albino, presenting with skin lesions over seventy percent of her body. And no, it is not in any way, shape, or form, melanoma. I checked." He shook his head. "Thoroughly. The mother was . . . very insistent."

Tresler might have said something about Wilson's chances of convincing House to see her patient being better than hers, but House definitely didn't need to hear that. They both knew it, anyway.

The diagnostician was clearly torn. Wilson had probably had him at 'albino', but the rest was just the icing on the cake. He waited patiently, the folder still stretched out over his desk like an olive branch.

Mutinously, House snatched the file. "You haven't won," he warned as he headed for the balcony door. "This is a strategic retreat. A regrouping of forces, in preparation for attack."

"Of course," the oncologist deadpanned, ruining the mock-serious acknowledgment a second later with his best Monty Python impression. "Run away, run away!"

House sniffed haughtily, closing the balcony door with a decided _click_.

Wilson scrubbed his hands down his face, watching his friend hop the wall separating their balconies and disappear into Diagnostics. _I know, House. I know._

* * *

"Differential diagnosis," House flung open the balcony door, limping close enough to pitch copies of a patient file at the table. "Blisters."

_New shoes. _Allison looked up in time to catch her folder, forever thankful for strong, built-in clips that kept all the papers firmly in place. The other two files knocked into the piles of mail she had spent hours sorting and responding to. She let the frustration show, but House's back was already turned.

"Herpes." Foreman didn't bother to look up from his articles, as the flying paperwork fell short of reaching him at the far end of the table.

"It always comes down to sex for you, doesn't it?" House leered, making his way to the whiteboard. Seriousness invaded, his tone turning businesslike as he uncapped a marker. "Herpes simplex viruses usually present with sores on and around the mouth and genitalia. Remarkably, these are really the only places this girl _doesn't_ have blisters. Which rules out Candidiasis as well."

"She's got blisters all over her body?" Allison flipped to the physician's notes. _Poor girl. There's going to be scarring, and on her face . . . At least it doesn't look like an STD's responsible._

Foreman's voice was surprised, but smug; he was finally looking up from his notes. "You found a patient?"

_Referral from Dr. Amira Tresler_, Allison read, eyes skipping over the pertinent details. _Name: Rachel Espinosa._ _Age: 15. I guess drinks are on –_

"Where's Chase?" Irritation scraped over them like sandpaper, rough and abrasive.

"In the ER, trying to scare up a new case," Foreman contributed. The journals were folded up, and disappeared into his messenger bag. _Finally. _"Could be pemphigus vulgaris."

"Page him. And that's a chronic condition," House countered. "This is the first time the patient's experienced these symptoms." Marker _squeak_ed against the dry-erase board.

_But everybody lies, right?_ Allison tilted the folder slightly, eliminating shadow from the overhead lights. She preferred to have a little faith in people.

"Could be the first outbreak," Foreman argued. But he was already punching Chase's pager number to recall him from his search for a new patient.

_Possible, but highly unlikely. _Allison frowned, and opened her mouth to dispute. "At fifteen? Pemphigus vulgaris is a middle-age diagnosis."

"You've got something better?" the neurologist jibed. Foreman folded his hands, tilting his head to size her up. Most of his attention stayed on their boss, though.

Allison huffed a sigh through her nose, and turned to House. The diagnostician was standing by the whiteboard, just finished with scribbling down the first symptom. _He might be on to something with autoimmune, though. Presenting with dermatological symptoms, specifically blisters, over a large percentage of the epidermis - _"Childhood linear IgA disease. She's a little old for it, but there have been cases of children afflicted into their early teens."

"It's chronic," Foreman pointed out, trying to throw House's point in her face.

Allison contended, "She's been seeking treatment for acne for several years. It's possible that she's had previous, minor outbreaks that were mistaken for acne or dermatitis."

"The difference between blisters and pimples is kind of obvious," the neurologist disallowed. He was leaning forward challengingly, and practically dripping skepticism.

Her temper flared, just a little, and each word came out clipped. "Because pemphigus vulgaris is so much more likely?"

"No," House interrupted. "So, autoimmune is a possibility." _Linear IgA (autoimmune)_ appeared on the whiteboard, and Cameron kept the triumph off her face. Their boss continued to muse. "Sunburn."

Allison's eyes involuntarily went to the window. The rain wasn't coming down as hard as a few hours ago, but the sky was still ominously dark and emphatically wet. _In this weather? Not here._ "It's possible if she's been traveling recently."

Footsteps sounded in the hall behind her. Pivoting in her chair, she caught a glimpse of a white coat just as Chase pushed open the door to Diagnostics and strode in.

"Ah, Chase. You've experienced the wonders of American educational television." House stepped in front of the whiteboard, changing topic on a dime. "Share with the class."

Allison glanced up over the rims of her glasses. The Australian was still standing in the doorway, blue eyes shifting from the expectant gaze she was leveling at him to Foreman's lowered eyes and unhidden amusement.

"That wasn't rhetorical," House said acidly, drawing their attention.

Beneath shaggy blond bangs, Chase blinked, floundering. "Well, apparently, it's not easy being green."

"It's not easy being colorless, either."

Allison balked at that. _Colorless? _"What?"

House didn't even look at her. Instead, he nodded at the folder waiting for Chase on the table. "Read up."

Absorbed in her own copy of the patient file, she barely registered the scrape of metal over carpet as Chase pulled out a chair and seated himself at her side. Allison scanned the first few pages again, and felt her eyes widen. _Hair color: white. Eye color: lavender. Pre-existing conditions: __Oculocutaneous albinism. How did I miss -_

"The patient's an albino?" Chase blurted, folder pressed widely open under his fingertips.

_That's rude._ Allison wasn't precisely sure how, but there had to be a more . . . delicate way of putting it. Blunt was usually House's style, and he was best left to it.

"They really need to start including pictures in these files. Purely for entertainment value," their boss mused. A _clack_ drew Allison's gaze upwards; he'd hooked his cane over the whiteboard, revealing its contents to the room once more. "Yes, the oozing wonder is also lacking all pigmentation in skin, hair and eyes. Back to the full-body blisters. Chase? Care to contribute?"

"Um, transient acantholytic dermatosis," the Australian managed. "Sudden onset of papules on the back, chest, arms, legs."

_Transient – isn't that usually a different subset of the population?_ House wanted them to be looking for zebras, not horses, but even so . . . _It's a reach._ Allison flipped through the file again, reading a little more closely this time.

"Grover's disease," House capped the marker. "First the Muppets, now Sesame Street. Your education is growing by leaps and bounds. Too bad it's not medically relevant. If she was male, and over forty, that might fit."

_Ouch._ She winced.

"The symptoms fit," Chase tried.

"But not the patient profile," House half-shouted back. "That line I mentioned, between persistence and stupidity? You're crossing it."

_What is _that_ all about?_ She'd ask her co-worker later. _House is right. Find something else, Chase._ She jumped in to give him time to recover. "It could be a parasite. Scabies, or bedbugs." _A lot of bedbugs. Spider bite might also be a possibility, but enough bites to cause blisters over the majority of her body would definitely poison her, and then Chase would have won the bet because she'd have been coming in through the ER._

At her side the Australian muffled a sigh. They'd been working together long enough that his resentment was clear. And, well. _It's amazing what you learn about someone after sleeping with them. _But he'd made good use of the momentary reprieve she'd given him. "Allergic reaction. She's using three different moisturizers, who knows what brand of sunscreen, and two prescription acne creams." Chase shrugged. "She might have developed an allergy to one of them, gotten a bad batch, or maybe some of them are combining to irritate her skin. Alternatively, she went out last weekend and rolled in poison ivy without mentioning it."

House nodded, appeased, and the words _Parasites, Allergic Reaction_ and _Contact Dermatitis _made their way onto the board. "Okay. We have autoimmune, which leaves us with a whole host of pemphigoid conditions, plus burns, bites, mites, and poisonous plants. Foreman? Any last words?"

That got a definitive nod. "Pregnancy."

_No way he'll pass that up._ Allison exchanged an exasperated glance with Foreman as they waited for the punchline. They weren't kept in suspense long.

House chortled. "Again with the sex?"

"There are several dermatological conditions that appear during pregnancy and present with blisters," Foreman's voice was steady as he leant back in his chair. "They can start as early as the second trimester, and while yes, they're usually localized to the trunk of the body, it's not impossible for them to spread. She's got sensitive skin; it might make her prone to more severe outbreaks."

That got him a nod. "Okay. You," blue eyes rested on Foreman. "Urine, blood, samples of the mucosal membrane, allergy test. And find out if we got a two-for-one sale on albinos this week. Chase. Patient history – I want the details of her skincare regime. Get the name of every product she ever even thought about using, and find out if she went anywhere or did anything that could result in symptoms from burning or contact dermatitis. Cameron."

She locked eyes with him, but House's gaze was typically opaque. "Make sure she's thoroughly washed to get any allergins off her skin. Then get her on IV fluids for what she's losing through the blisters. Start her on Dapsone and Prednisone for the Linear IgA, and choose a test area to apply permethrin and see if it's scabies."

House went quiet, apparently done.

Allison nodded, pushing back her chair. _Time to go to work._

They had a case.

* * *

**A/N2: **Let me reiterate: the entire differential I pieced together from Wikipedia, WebMD and the unreliable intraweb. I know nothing about any of the conditions described, with the exception of getting blisters from new shoes, and I wasn't about to kill myself researching, sorry. No insult is intended towards anyone who has any of the conditions listed herein.


	3. Chapter 3

_This really, really sucks._ Rachel swallowed thickly, tongue a slab in her mouth. _Water would be good._

At least the hospital room was nice, even if whoever decided to make one wall completely glass ought to really experience what it was like to have to strip down with just a set of flimsy blinds for privacy. _Whatever moron designed this ought to be shot. Seriously._

Her internal rant didn't quite distract her from the tiny, pinching pain of the IV needle; this was the third time she'd been stuck today, and she'd only been in the hospital for two hours. A good half-hour of that had been spent getting the most carefully thorough scrubbing of her life. The cold slide of metal, _inside_ her arm, was creepily uncomfortable. Rachel couldn't pull her eyes away for a long moment. "What's this for?"

Another doctor had stopped by earlier, taking blood and giving her a cup to pee in, and sticking a needle in one of her blisters to collect some of the puss, which was just _gross_. He was going to be back to do an allergy test, he'd told them, but he hadn't shown up yet.

"You're losing a lot of fluid from these blisters." The woman doctor - Dr. Cameron - had a pleasant voice and a nice smile. Gloved fingers were gently turning Rachel's arm as she examined the seeping protrusions. "We're just making sure you don't get dehydrated. We're also putting you on medications to treat Childhood Linear IgA Disease."

_Say what now?_ Not surprisingly, Rachel had never heard of it. "So that's what you think I have?"

Dr. Cameron nodded, sticking a needle into a bit of hard plastic that joined into the flexible IV tubing. "It's one of the possibilities we're exploring, yes."

"What does that mean?" Mom was sitting in a chair along the wall, purse clutched ion her lap and both feet tapping back-and-forth on the floor.

_God, here we go again_. "The doctors know what they're doing, Mom," she hissed. As if she wasn't enough of a freak already, everywhere they went her mother insisted on making a scene.

"I'm just asking a question, Rachel. Am I not allowed to do that?" Her mother's face was perfectly composed, brown eyes serious under a shock of dark hair that Mom joked Rachel was turning gray. Her face had a summer glow to it from the tanning salon; it was too early in the year for a real tan. _Plus the weather's been crappy lately._

Sometimes Rachel hated her, just a little.

"Aggggghhhhhhh!" The teen turned her head away. "Everywhere we go you do this. God, can't you just back off, already?" Not a chance. No matter what she did, her mom was still embarrassing.

Dr. Cameron's voice was careful. "Linear IgA disease is an autoimmune disorder. Basically, your immune system gets confused, starts attacking your body."

Rachel scraped a black-painted nail over the bed rail. She kept her head turned toward the glass wall, away from her mom. "Why?"

Dr. Cameron was checking the machine that was attached to her IV. "Usually, it's genetic, though sometimes the symptoms are the result of an allergy. But there are a whole lot of other things that can cause blisters. Bedbugs, for one."

"Bedbugs? Seriously?" Rachel almost laughed, but made the mistake of shifting her legs against the sheets to find a more comfortable position. The tender, slightly painful sensation that roared awake all along her skin had her stifling a wince instead. "This would have to be a _lot_ of bedbugs. Mom makes me change the sheets pretty often."

"I keep the house clean." Mom was frowning.

Didn't Rachel know it. _You mean I keep it clean_. It wasn't like she didn't get an allowance out of it, because she did, but it was still really annoying to wake up every Saturday and have to vacuum as soon as she rolled out of bed.

"It's not likely," Dr. Cameron smiled. "The treatments we're giving you generally sort everything out pretty fast. You'll clear up in no time."

"Good," Rachel nodded sharply. She didn't particularly love school, but it was better than being stuck home - or in the hospital - with Mom fussing at her.

There were a few shifting and clicking noises as the doctor adjusted the equipment Rachel was hooked up to. _More_ _than I need just for my skin acting up again._ There was something she recognized as a heart monitor from watching too much General Hospital, but the squiggly lines tracing in red and yellow below the one that matched every beat of her heart were beyond her. There was another plastic box on the IV pole, and it beeped loudly as she bent her arm and the tubing twisted. _That's . . . really freakin' obnoxious._ Rachel scowled, tugging it straight.

"Dr. Cameron?" her mom stopped the doctor just as she was about to leave. "I just have a quick question."

Rachel sighed, loudly. _Right. A quick question. Hope you don't have anything to do for the next hour or so._ It was going to be more of the same, 'medications', 'side effects', 'do you really know what's going on with my daughter', blah blah blah. She really didn't need to hear this. "Take it outside," Rachel advised, voice raised enough to carry across the room and probably a little into the hallway beyond. "I'm gonna read." She held up her book.

Fourteen pages later there was a tapping on the glass door.

Rachel looked up. _Oh. Wow_. Maybe there were some perks to being stuck in the hospital after all.

"Hi, Rachel. I'm Dr. Chase," said the hunk that had just walked into her room.

_Australian_ _accent_, Rachel stared. After a few minutes of silence, she remembered her manners. _Oh, God. Could I be any more of a dork?!_ "Nice to meet you," she blurted. _Really, really nice. _

The eyes that met hers were a bright blue, and didn't flinch at too-pale skin and white hair on someone who wasn't even old enough to vote. Rachel looked away, fighting not to blush and losing as she felt her face heat.

"Alright. How are you feeling?"

"Okay," she mumbled. "Dr. Cameron just gave me the medicine."

"Yeah, we expect it to take a bit for the medication to work. Not too long, though." He pulled up a chair from the wall, and sat right by her bed. Rachel snuck a glance as he settled himself, clipboard in hand.

Dr. Chase's hair was longer than hers, and he shook it away from his face before continuing. "I'm gonna take a patient history, okay? I wanted to let you know that anything you tell me stays confidential. The only other people who find out about it are Dr. Cameron, Dr. Foreman, and Dr. House, who're all working on your case. We won't even tell your mom, if you want."

She crunched a bit of blanket between her fingers, still unable to look at him directly. "Don't you have to - tell my mom, I mean? I'm a minor."

"Well, you can't get married," Dr. Chase smiled, but the expression quickly faded into seriousness, "or have an abortion without parental knowledge and consent in the state of New Jersey. But we need to know everything we can, so we can make sure we know exactly why you're sick. And generally if we want you to tell us, you have to trust that we won't run and tattle if you do."

"I'm not pregnant," Rachel assured him.

"You're not sexually active?"

He didn't mean anything by it, but still. Rachel laughed bitterly. "I've never even had a boy ask me to dance. Look at me." She was horribly conscious of the huge blisters on her face and the backs of her hands and arms. Dr. Chase's eyes went from short, spiked white hair down the length of her thin, gangly, flat-chested body.

"It's not so bad," he said softly.

He probably saw worse, saw people dying, every day.

"I know," Rachel closed her eyes. She _was_ one of the lucky ones, she was. Her eyes weren't red, and she didn't need intense glasses or surgery to fix her vision. "But I'm not - pretty, like the other girls in my class. I'm not normal. And none of the really nice boys want to date me." _Because everyone will laugh at them._ "Because I'm . . . different. And the ones who say they don't care about it want to brag that they got the freak to give it up. They're all druggies and losers anyway."

Last year. She'd been one row of lockers over, and heard a bunch of guys from her PE class debating the physical assets of the girls they'd want most to bang. She'd been lucky enough to hear about the bet they'd started beforehand, so she knew exactly what was going on when the first one had approached her, asked her if she wanted to go to Rita's for a slurpee. She'd said no, and told him to tell his friends to go to hell.

Then she'd taken her allowance, gone to the hairdresser after school, and gotten her waist-length hair chopped off. Her parents had flipped, and Rachel had told them about the bet. It had been a bad month.

"Give it some time," the doctor advised gently.

_Right. Time. _Rachel looked away.

There was a shuffling noise as Dr. Chase messed with the papers on his clipboard. His question, when it came, was businesslike. "Do you wear makeup? Anything that might irritate your skin?"

"No," Rachel shook her head. "Just nail polish and some lipstick. Sometimes eye shadow, but only a little bit. There's a line between Goth and tramp, y'know?"

Dr. Chase's head turned toward the tangle of black cotton and leather, with the occasionally gleaming silver stud, which Rachel had tossed at the foot of her bed when she'd undressed. Surprisingly, he smiled. "Goth, huh?"

She shrugged, pulling the flimsy hospital gown closer. "People always stare at me, y'know? When I try and dress like everybody else. The skin, the hair, the eyes - I'm a freak. I thought they always would. But this way, - they see all the black, and the nail polish and everything else, and think it's makeup and dye and contacts. And . . . then they don't actually see _me_, y'know? They see some emo teen with anger issues. Half the time they don't even look." _It works for me._

"Protective coloring," Dr. Chase nodded. "People think you dress like that to make them look, to get a reaction. So they don't. Smart."

Her parents hadn't seen it that way. Rachel smiled, blushing. "Thanks."

"What about lotions, skin creams, that sort of thing? Your file says you've been seeing Dr. Tresler for the past few years?"

_Moles, sunburn, sensitive skin, cellulite . . . _The teen nodded, and started to explain.

* * *

"James Wilson."

The person on the other end of the phone line cleared their throat, then spoke. "James, it's me."

"Julie." The oncologist frowned at the rain pounding down on his balcony; something sounded off. "Is everything all right?"

"I called the lawyer."

He sucked in a breath. Wilson had half-thought that she might, but he hadn't expected it to be so soon. _I thought I'd have more time. _"What did he -"

"He's started the paperwork."

_What? _"That's not necessary." _We can still salvage this_. Wilson gripped the phone tighter, unconsciously leaning forward in his office chair. "I don't think it's gone that far, Julie. There's still time; we _can_ keep this from deteriorating any further."

Every word was terse, clipped. "Can we really?"

"Yes, I-"

"James, I gave Sandman all the details, I promise you. He honestly thinks a divorce is our best option." Julie's voice was surprisingly soft. "At this point, so do I."

Words deserted him.

_I thought this time it would be all right. Four years. I thought -_

"I know it's a difficult process, and that this is the third time you've had to go through it, but I really do think it's for the best."

"For who?" Wilson asked bleakly. _Not for me_. Although that wasn't completely true. Julie was trying; they hadn't lived together for four years completely oblivious to one another. _But we don't have the same priorities_. The nature of their arrangement precluded it. That was in part why he had agreed to it in the first place. _I need an objective viewpoint._

But this was jumping the gun.

_Rebecca._

Wilson winced at the memory. Maybe Julie wasn't being unreasonable, given his history. But things hadn't ended nearly as disastrously with Bonnie - though that wouldn't be difficult - despite the fact that they too had ended up parting ways.

The barest edge of a sigh caught the receiver on the other end, and traveled to him. "This whole situation is out of control."

Wilson felt rebellion rise up. "How so? I've managed it at the hospital, you're managing it at home. Give it time, and it'll go away. Be replaced by something more newsworthy." It shouldn't even take a _lot_ of time. There were more important things going on in the world than the thwarted hold-up of a hospital clinic.

"What about House?" Julie didn't soften the question; it needed to be asked, and Wilson recognized that. _Doesn't mean I have to like it._

Because he didn't have an answer. House was notorious for both his driven intelligence and obsessive need to know. Wilson was one of the few people who got to see his playful side, who knew the irrepressible mischief that lived deep in House's heart. He'd been privileged to witness the diagnostician's vast capacity to care, guarded closely by razor-sharp wit and harsh personality. _I've gotten him to think, for now. He'll think, then he'll act - somehow - to get more information so he can think, discover, more._ There was no predicting House's thoughts or actions beyond knowing generally how he operated. No knowing _when_ or _how_ or even _who_ or _where_.

"Look, James." Julie had always been good at accurately reading his silences. "I respect that you needed to protect -"

She was missing the point. Wilson gritted his teeth. "Julie, _he had a gun_. He was in arm's reach. If House hadn't distracted him, he probably would have shot me. I know you don't like House, but he tried to save me and came three inches from dying."

Wilson hadn't thought. He'd just seen what was about to happen, and the whole of his mind and body had exploded in pure refusal. _No. House!_

He hadn't felt anything like that since David.

"And I'm grateful to him for that," she said. The kicker was that she was actually sincere about it. "I am. But it doesn't negate the fact that he's going to be a problem."

Gregory House, diagnostic genius who excelled at puzzles, who was more curious than a litter of kittens, and who was the only person who had known Wilson long enough to have a chance at figuring it all out.

"And your solution is just to wipe the slate clean? Start from scratch?" Wilson, for the first time in a long time, didn't want to. "No. I can't accept that that's the only way."

"James, we can only help you as long as you let us," Julie reminded him.

He fought back the urge to stand and pace. The phone was on a short cord - he wouldn't get very far. "I know."

"And if you don't let us, it's a breach of your agreement," Julie continued inexorably. "We won't be able to continue expending resources on David."

And Wilson's life in Princeton would be over anyway. _I still lose._

"I know!" Wilson took a deep breath, curbing hot emotion. "I know," he whispered. He hadn't foreseen this when he'd made the deal. Hadn't thought that there would be a place, or people, that he wouldn't be able to leave behind - especially if it meant that he could keep David from being another of the Agency's lost statistics.

David's disappearance had ripped a hole in his life. Nothing would ever fill it, but House could make him forget it was there.

"Julie, please - " Wilson broke off, staring sightlessly at the rain pounding down on his balcony. "Look, can we just try? Please?"

He could almost see her on the other end of the line, short hair in an elegant bob as her head shook in the negative. Nothing about her appearance was ever less than austere and classy. "James -" she sounded sorry, resigned. "Okay. I'll do what I can."

Wilson had been in the Game long enough not to put much stock in such a pat answer. _I have a little time. Not much, but maybe enough._ "Thank you."

Maybe just enough time to figure out what to do next.

* * *

"Someone! Help! _Please!_"

Screaming was not uncommon in a hospital – but cries for help outside the Emergency Room were rarer, and far more urgent. Foreman darted down the hall, towards the woman he recognized as their patient's mother.

"What's wrong?" he called, hoping to reach her before her answer reached him.

"She's burning up," Mrs. Espinosa said tearfully, hovering just outside the door to the girl's room. "She was alright for awhile, and then said she wasn't feeling well – wanted to take a nap. I can't wake her up!"

_Shit, shit, shit!_

The labs had come back; Rachel's white count was in the basement, which was why Foreman had been making his way to check on her in the first place. If Cameron had already started her on the immunosuppressants – God, they'd killed the kid. _Maybe not. She's only gotten a partial dose of the medication, if we – _"Pull her IV now!" he directed the nearest nurse. "We need to get her into a clean room, stat!"

His first glimpse of the patient wasn't promising; the snarky, irritable teen of only an hour ago was a sweaty, flushed, trembling mess. Her eyes were closed and sunken, her whiter-than-white skin had a worrying red tinge. The hospital gown and sheets were sweaty and twisted, and the entire room stank of fever. _I've seen worse,_ the neurologist reminded himself. _I've seen patients survive worse._

The IV was clamped and removed. Foreman could hear the rushing wheels of a gurney in the hall. _Good._

"Please, what's wrong with -"

"Mrs. Espinosa," Foreman grabbed the woman's shoulders, steering her into a corner and out of the way. Cameron might disagree, but the mother wasn't their patient, and he didn't have the time to sugar-coat things for her. "Your daughter has a dangerously high fever." He met dark, tearful eyes, and took a calming breath. She wouldn't be any use to them in hysterics. "Her immune system is compromised, and we need to get her into a sterile environment now."

The gurney was hurried into the room, and Foreman looked over his shoulder to see that Chase had arrived, and was directing the nurses to shift the girl for quick transport. _Good._ The Australian might be a little wacky, and Foreman would _never _understand whatever was going on between him and Cameron, but the intensivist was at the least a very competent doctor.

"Okay, Rachel, it'll be alright," Foreman heard Chase's voice.

_She's awake?_ The neurologist turned, surprised, and caught the faintest flash of color from underneath struggling eyelids. _Or not._

"M - mommy?"

The woman at his side gave a stifled sob, reaching out for the limp form as the gurney slid past them and out of the room. "Baby?" She was right behind the crowd of people rushing her daughter down the hall. "Mommy's here, baby, it's going to be all right."

Foreman made sure she wasn't getting in the way of any of the nurses or doctors, and decided to let her be for the moment.

"Temperature's 104.3 degrees and rising," Chase called, and everyone was suddenly moving much, much faster.

"Mommeee?!" came the plaintive cry.

Mrs. Espinosa's hands were gripping the rail, knuckles white, and tears were running down her face. "I'm right here, baby. Right here. It's gonna be okay, I promise, everything's going to be fine -"

The teen didn't hear her, thrashing weakly against the hands placing icepacks at her armpits and groin, continuing to call out. The gurney hit the elevators at a run, and Foreman nodded to Chase. "Cameron will meet you at the clean room. I've got this." He pried the woman's fingers loose from the gurney, holding her back as she tried to crowd into the overpacked elevator car. "Mrs. Espinosa."

She pulled free from his hold just as the doors shut and left her standing, directionless, in the hall. The two nurses who hadn't been able to fit in the elevator car dispersed slowly.

"Mrs. Espinosa -"

"Why didn't you let me go with her?" their patient's mother burst out. Heels clicked angrily against linoleum as she paced back towards him, across the deserted hallway. "She's my daughter, why did you -"

Kids were always the worst. Foreman didn't hate treating them, he actually managed to get along with them better than with adult patients most of the time. But he hated the way he could never stay uninvolved or detached when he saw a child suffering. He'd gotten a definite kick out of the snarky attitude and blithe aplomb Rachel had displayed on admission. He wanted to hear those amusingly sarcastic quips again, not the fearful cries of a child in pain, begging for protection.

His voice, when he answered her, was softer than he'd like. "Mrs. Espinosa. I'm sorry, but we needed to get your daughter to a sterile environment as quickly as possible. She was delirious with fever, and even though she was calling for you, she wasn't really conscious. Rachel didn't know you were there."

"Why – why is she sick like this?" Mrs. Espinosa was fumbling in her pockets, pulling out a tissue and scrubbing it over her face. Makeup smeared beneath her eyes, but the woman still managed to pin him with a glare. "She just had some blisters! She wasn't running a fever or throwing up, she didn't even feel sick! Why is she -"

"She _was_ sick," Foreman interrupted. "She just wasn't showing symptoms yet. That's why I was coming to talk to you. I tested Rachel's blood, before we gave her any medication at all. Her white blood cell count was very low, which means her immune system wasn't ready or able to fight off an infection."

"And that's what she has now? An infection?" The tissue was crunched into a misshapen ball in one of Mrs. Espinosa's fists; the woman had her arms crossed protectively over her chest.

"We have to do some tests to determine that," Foreman kept his tone calm. The woman in front of him was a heartbeat from breaking down or lashing out, and he wanted to avoid both of those scenarios if possible.

The face that turned toward him was incredibly lost; the suave woman who had asked probing questions about his every move, earlier, had been transformed into a distraught mother. "What's wrong with her? What's wrong with my baby?"

_We don't know._ But he wasn't about to tell her that; there was no better way to lose a patient's confidence, and Foreman wasn't willing to admit defeat. "We're going to find out. Come on. I'll take you to Rachel."

* * *

"Well, I guess that rules out Linear IgA," House mused, back to them as he scribbled _Fever_ on the whiteboard. "And autoimmune is off the board."

_There goes poison ivy and spiderbite too. _Chase scratched at his collar, tie loose and shirt a little sweaty from the frantic work of depositing Rachel in a clean room. _Not that those options were ever really likely._ His mind flipped over to their patient, and the ice bath he'd instructed the nurses to put Rachel in as he'd left her, in hopes of getting the fever down.

"Not entirely," Cameron protested. Her fingers were interlaced, resting on the journals still spread across the glass table, whole body leaning forward toward the whiteboard. "The blisters could still be symptomatic of -"

"No way," Foreman cut her off. "Autoimmune disorders result from the immune system going haywire and attacking the body. The girl doesn't even _have_ an immune system at this point. Can't be an allergy, or contact dermatitis. It's got to be an infection."

Cameron's face was set in stone; Chase kept his mouth shut. It wasn't just a mistake in diagnosis, it was a mistake that might kill their patient. _Giving immune-system suppressants to someone whose immune system was already going down the drain._ It didn't matter that they hadn't known she had a depleted white count; they should have waited for the test results before giving her any medication at all. There were drawbacks to learning from House; becoming comfortable with discarding regular medical procedure was one of them.

"Foreman's right. Not that it does us much good." House was pacing back and forth in front of the whiteboard, marker in one hand. "Antibiotics don't work without an immune system to work with."

_But there could still be a chance. _"We might have gotten her off the Prednisone and Dapsone early enough that if we treat the symptoms aggressively, she could survive the fever," Chase offered. "It won't be more than six hours for the medication to clear her system enough that we could see a white count improvement. If the drugs were what tipped her body's defenses over the edge, she might be able to bounce back enough for antibiotics to get a handle on the infection." _If it's bacterial, and not viral._ If it was viral, they'd know soon enough; Rachel would be dead.

Foreman was shaking his head. "That's a pretty big 'if', Chase."

"Yeah, but it's all we've got right now," House cut in. The cane tapped against the carpet; Chase thought he recognized Morse Code, but he'd never bothered to learn it completely. "And we've got no time to find out what's actually making her sick. We've got blisters, now fever." He thumped his way over to the sink, slamming open a cupboard in search of a mug. "What did the tests show?"

"Well, there was no HCG in her blood," Foreman offered from the doorway.

"Plus the patient was pretty emphatic about not being sexually active." Chase was immune to the searing skepticism House leveled at him. _Everybody lies. Got that the first ten times. _"Not that that means anything," he conceded, just to get his boss directing that obsessive attention somewhere else.

"So no pregnancy," Cameron murmured. A line slashed through that option on the whiteboard. "I examined her; the blisters were large, filled with fluid – not the result of parasites like fleas or scabies. What about HIV?" she continued.

Foreman shook his head. "Blood test was negative for HIV and AIDS, and her tox screen came back clean."

"Pure as the driven snow," House rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. "_Please._ She's a _teenager_."

"So she automatically has to be doing drugs or having sex?" Cameron retorted. Her spine straightened, green eyes narrowing. _Sexy._ Chase pushed the thought away, but the lines of her body were still enticing.

"Or both. She's got to be rebelling against authority somehow," their boss maintained, back to the room. There was a glint of white as House yanked a mug from the cupboard and set it beside their coffeepot.

Chase grinned to himself. "She is."

All eyes turned his way. "Care to explain that?" House glanced his way, pouring coffee.

"She's a goth. Black clothes, silver studs, makeup, the works." Chase laughed a little. "You could tell her mom wasn't happy about it at all, especially when she cut all her hair off so it was short enough to spike."

"Huh. Albino going Dark Side," their boss smiled a little. "Cool."

Cameron's mouth pressed into a tight line. Chase bit his lip, and kept his eyes on the whiteboard. She never did like it when House let fact overrule tact. This time at least, she refrained from giving her opinion.

"We need to narrow it down and find out what she's got before it kills her," House sipped from his mug, and left it on the counter as he made his way to the balcony door. The rain was coming down again, after the brief break they'd gotten a short while ago. "Blood tests. Cultures, sample everything you can. And pray it's not viral, or she's already dead."

Foreman nodded, hands deep in the pockets of his white lab coat as he headed towards the door. Cameron was half a beat behind the neurologist when an idea hit Chase. "What if it's the other way around?"

"Explain." House didn't turn, still peering out at the rain-soaked brick that made up his balcony wall.

Chase stepped into the middle of the room, left hand at his waist while the other gestured at the symptoms listed on the whiteboard. "We're assuming here that she has an infection that's destroying her immune system. What if it's not? What if it's something else, and she just caught the first disease she came into contact with?"

That finally got the diagnostician's attention; House turned. "Oh?"

"Cancer," Chase said definitively. Cameron and Foreman had paused, listening, as the differential apparently wasn't complete.

Their boss shook his head. "Nope, no cancer. Tresler already ran it by Wilson."

"For melanoma," Chase pointed out. "If she's got a low white count, her immune system's depressed. Paraneoplastic pemphigoid presents with blistering and usually indicates an underlying Lymphoproliferative disorder."

"Lymphoma," Cameron breathed. It was a death sentence.

"Two diseases instead of one?" Foreman had never liked that idea, preferring Occam's Razor whenever possible.

"It's possible," Cameron agreed, head bobbing.

"Fine. Biopsy a lymph node," House ordered. "And find out what infection decided to move in and set up shop, so we can keep her from dying before we figure out if cancer is killing her. Go."

They went.


End file.
